Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the question his undivided thought.
"No, I can't recall a single statement of that nature." His words were measured and urbane. "I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of her nerves was due—so my diagnosis led me to conclude—to late hours, excitement, irregular and rich eating—what, I believe, is referred to vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age, sir"
"When did you see her last, may I ask?" Markham interrupted impatiently.
The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.
"When did I see her last? . . . Let me see." He could, apparently, recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. "A fortnight ago, perhaps—though it may have been longer. I really can't recall. . . . Shall I refer to my files?"
"That won't be necessary," said Markham. He paused, and regarded the doctor with a look of disarming affability. "And was this last visit a paternal or merely a professional one?"
"Professional, of course." Doctor Lindquist's eyes were impassive and only mildly interested; but his face, I felt, was by no means the unedited reflection of his thoughts.
"Did the meeting take place here or at her apartment?"
"I believe I called on her at her home."
"You called on her a great deal, doctor—so I am informed—and at rather unconventional hours. . . .
